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She hid there often, too afraid to go home. Too afraid to face the truth of the emptiness she'd left behind. She'd write; sometimes enough to almost fill the novel floating around in her head and sometimes words, just an endless list of words with little meaning yet so much hidden behind each syllable . She had places to go but there was so much safety in the silence of the coffeehouse. She was could be anybody there and nobody at the same time. Nobody cared who she was as long as she paid for her cup of coffee.
She couldn't get deep enough under the covers, her pillow over her head. She tried to block out the light in hopes to block out the voices, repeating over and over again, telling her she wasn't good enough, that she'd never be good enough. They were violently terrifying tonight and nothing she did could make them stop. Pillow after pillow, blanket after blanket, and she was still plagued by their vicious words. Words echoing the same things her partner had said only hours before. Had it only been hours? Had she really only been left alone for such a short time to fall so far? Alone again but never truly alone. Broken, bruised, damaged, but still unfortunately alive.
Her welfare was always on my mind and I couldn't help but feel as if her lying in that bed, a metal machine breathing life in and out of her lungs, as if it was all my fault. I wasn't able to protect her, I wasn't able to keep her safe from the world. And now here she was, dying. I felt as if my whole world was on its axis, falling, falling, falling into nothing. Her welfare was my responsibility and I failed. I. Failed.
writing since 2013 · 4 entries · 4 days shown up
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wordshomefallingpillowalonecarhitchhikerdirtywelfareablefailedheadblockblankethoursafraid